I give him a look over my shoulder, and his laughter subsides, a residual smile on his face. He just sits there with his well-worn jeans and his bracketed mouth and looks at me. Really looks at me. It’s not a face-off, but I treat it like one, and for the next couple of seconds, we’re just regarding each other.
And then I remember the situation we’re in.
Who cares if Logan’s hot, even in that eyesore of a tie-dye shirt? The man ruined—and then joined—my desperate attempt for answers. It does feel slightly reassuring, though, to know that I’m not the only one making mistakes today.
“What? You don’t want me to know your name and birthday?” Logan asks.
I furrow my eyebrows and glance away. “Of course I don’t. I don’t know you.”
My colleagues at work don’t—didn’t—even know my birthday.
Logan dips his head to meet my eyes. When he does this, it’s like he’s trying to show me that I’m all he’s focusing on. There’s nothing, and no one, else.
“Fine.” He runs his hands down his thighs, his forearms flexing. “But then you don’t get to know mine.”
There’s a charge in the air surrounding me and Logan.
I feel my body spin in his direction. “And here I was hoping to get you something nice,” I say.
A bigger smile stretches across Logan’s face. “Well, you missed my last thirty-one birthdays, so I wasn’t expecting much.”
Wendy clears her throat, and I startle. The last thing I want is a connection with another good-looking guy. I’ve got the proof in the folder in my bag to see how that would end. “As I wassaying… ” I angle back toward the birds, lean in, and whisper, “I was born on October 13, 1996. What does my future look like?”
I sit back against the seat, my cheeks heating. I have no reason to be embarrassed. Knowing more about the future is the entire point of this. Still, I feel too exposed. Too impulsive.
An impulsive fortune-telling. An impulsive marriage. Why do I do this to myself when it all leads to nothing good?
“Great question,” Logan says, rubbing his hands together. Veins run like little streams along the back of them, trickling out toward his long fingers. His hands look strong, like he could carry heavy things all day long and not even be tired at the end of it. “I’m going to ask the same.”
I try to focus on what’s important here: the cards. My fortune. My future.
Wendy unfolds the first card and smooths it over the table. “We’ll begin with your past, then analyze your present and future,” she says.
The cards are intricately painted in vibrant colors, depicting scenes with characters who look otherworldly. On this first card, a smiling woman in gold gestures toward a child. They’re surrounded by six vases filled with flowers.
“You carry a lot of responsibility,” Wendy says, her mouth turned down. Is that a frown? “You have for a long time.” She holds my gaze for a few long seconds. “You’re living too much in the past. You were happy then, but you were also sad. You’re missing out on the present. Get in touch with your inner child. Play. Have fun.”
My throat goes dry. I don’t attempt to speak. Everything Wendy just said was eerily accurate. I cross my legs and my arms like I’m folding myself up. Usually, it comforts me, but right now, I can’t hide.
My responsibilities practically roll out in front of me, like a mental news ticker. They’re in no particular order because order would imply control, of which there is none. Bills. Student loans. Mortgage. Rent. Food. Health care. Money for Dad and Jerry.
Wendy analyzes the second card, which shows an older woman in flowing robes lifting her hands to a cobalt sky. Multiple swords fly above her, pointing somewhere off the card. I can’t tell if she’s defending herself, taking action against someone else, or practicing her skills.
“You’ll experience a loss soon,” Wendy states.
I huff out the last of the air in my lungs. Literally? Or does she mean that theoretically? This card is supposed to represent the present. I’ve already lost my bracelet, job, self-respect, hot water, and dim sum. I’d say I’ve lost enough today as it is.
“A loss? What loss?” I ask.
“It’s going to be a difficult time with the suddenness of it,” Wendy explains, her face neutral. “You may not understand or be ready to face your deeply buried wounds, but dealing with them will set you free.”
“Maybe it’s the dim sum, and it’s behind you now,” Logan says so genuinely I think he’s trying to help.
“It’s actually underneath me,” I retort. To Wendy, I say, “Going to besounds like a future thing.”
“It’s a fluid timeframe. These cards are responses to your question, but this entire reading only lasts three to four months,” Wendy explains. She unfolds my third card before I can ask more clarifying questions. On it is a flying woman in a navy gown sending down what looks like lightning strikes at a building. The scene looks bad. Like something is falling apart.
My life, obviously.
